Poetry

My poetical thoughts.

Shells

We dance upon a plane of ice A skin across a vat of blood. How brittle is this skin of self, How thin the ice we tread; A crack - and all that was white Is red.

World's Ending

At the gates of Rome City of Blood The Messiah sits among the lepers Wrapping and unwrapping his blood-soaked bandages "Perhaps today I will be needed," He says. "I must be ready."